


the warmth found in broken things

by siehn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Spoilers for Insatiable, post-3B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1354579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siehn/pseuds/siehn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Afterwards, Stiles can't seem to pick himself back up. The Pack does it for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the warmth found in broken things

**Author's Note:**

> Purely self-indulgent fic that I wanted to write. Post-3B AU. 
> 
> Implied Sterek if you squint; mostly just pack-feels, honestly.

Long after its over, and the nogitsune is dust, Stiles can still feel the cold seeping into his bones. It starts slow, with a light chill during the day that has him rubbing his hands together in a telling way. 

“Stiles?” Scott asks, watching him with quiet, worried eyes, and an ear attuned, Stiles knows, to his heartbeat. He hates that he puts that look on Scott's face, that he's one more worry to add to those tense shoulders that already seem to carry the weight of the world since the night Stiles dragged him out to find a dead body. 

He dredges up a crooked smile from the place he keeps his memories of Scott; clumsy, loveable Scott, and Stiles' fingers still twitch with the muscle-memory of twisting a sword in his best friend's gut. He valiantly holds the smile while swallowing back the bile rising in the back of his throat. 

“I'm fine,” he says, and winces. He's been saying that too much, and avoids the narrow-eyed disbelief Scott stares at him with, shoulders hunching as he curls in on himself instinctively. Stiles sighs and holds his hands up against his friends on the other side of the table. “I'm just cold, I swear.” They know better by now than to offer him their jackets, or to sit too far into his space with just the intent to provide inhuman warmth. Sometimes, Stiles doesn't want to be touched, can't stand their gestures of comfort when his memories tell him in technicolor all the things he did to them. It doesn't matter how many times he's been told it wasn't him, or that he's forgiven, he still sees the way Melissa hesitates around him; the way Lydia sometimes won't meet his eyes, and the grief they all share over Allison. Most of the time, Stiles doesn't know what to do with himself, or them, and he drops his eyes back to the tray of barely-picked-at food in front of him. 

He doesn't tell them that the cold just gets worse. He's left sitting in his jeep after school, shivering so hard he can nearly hear his teeth rattling. It will only get worse when the sun sets. Sometimes, if he tries hard enough, Stiles can still vaguely remember the warmth of the sun during lacrosse practice, back before this started, when he used to trust himself to fall asleep and wake up still Stiles. 

He doesn't, anymore. 

Scott lets himself in once Stiles is at home, coaxes him into playing video games the way they used to do before psychotic fox-spirits, and Stiles doesn't protest when his best friend casually drapes the pile of blankets on the couch over Stiles's shoulders. He offers a small smile instead, and leans into Scott's side carefully for as long as he'll let himself, eventually pushing himself to his feet to head into the kitchen. He makes enough food to feed hungry wolves, and doesn't protest when Isaac shows up with Kira. She looks sheepish and unsure of her welcome, and Stiles waves her inside with a grand gesture that was normal, once; his movements feel forced and ungainly these days, like he's still trying to get used to having his body back. Scott's smile is worth it, and Lydia meets his eyes when she comes whirling through the door, her hand patting him gently on the chest, and he can't help the way his breath catches because he still remembers the weight of her sobbing against his chest the night Allison dies. He doesn't acknowledge the way they're all staring at him, just takes a breath and burrows a little further into second shirt he's wearing. 

The conversation is light, talk of homework and lacrosse, and Coach's newest antics. They eat Stiles' food, and sprawl all over his living room to watch a movie and he can't breathe with all the feelings stuck in his throat; the sudden, terrible affection for these people who have refused to leave him alone. They're all still there when his Dad gets home, shaking his head at the amount of teenagers piled in his house, and his son in the midst of them all, wrapped in blankets and allowing his pack to look after him. 

It becomes a thing. Stiles doesn't expect it to become a thing, but the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that are the same. His friends invading his house, but careful of his space; offering only what Stiles will accept, and he swallows hard when it doesn't stop. 

“Derek?” Stiles probably shouldn't be surprised to find him leaning casually against the door frame, watching him with an appraising look. The rest of the pack is in the living room bickering over what movie to watch, and Stiles needed to escape before the panic clawing vaguely at his chest became apparent. It helps that he has a legitimate reason; the lasagna won't cook itself, after all. His hands are shaking, and he grips the edge of the counter hard. He hasn't seen Derek since he and Scott had burned the nogitsune out of Stiles, their claws buried in the back of his neck as their wolves ripped the fox-spirit out of him. 

“You don't have to hide,” Derek says, and Stiles' eyes slip closed as he shakes his head in denial. “It's okay to let them, _us_ , help,” he adds, merciless in his kindness. Stiles wants to laugh at the hypocrisy, but then maybe Derek knows all too well what he's talking about. Of all of them, he's probably the only one who understands why Stiles still shies away from them, still has panic clawing at his throat because of the memories in his head. 

“I _hurt_ them,” Stiles tells him, voice shaking as much as his body. “I hurt _you_. Derek, I—” 

“We've healed,” Derek tells him simply. And it isn't 'it wasn't you,' or some platitude about forgiveness. It's very Derek, really, and Stiles half-sobs something that might have been a laugh in different circumstances. He still remembers the feel of Derek under his hands, the strength of the nogitsune hurling him into the wall. He can hear the silence in the other room, knows they're all listening to the way his heartbeat has skyrocketed, and he watches Derek step closer. 

“Don't,” he says, pleads, because he can feel himself falling apart and he'd rather shatter on his own. “Derek, please, I can't,” he tries, but Derek's careful with him in that way he's always had of doing just as much as he thinks Stiles can handle, and gentle hands slip around his elbows, holding him up when his knees want to give out. “I don't deserve it,” he finally whispers, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes, and he hates it. He tried to kill his dad, nearly did kill his pack. Allison is dead because of him, because of the thing that was wearing his face. He shakes his head even as Derek just tugs him forwards, arms wrapping around him as Stiles falls apart around him. 

“Don't ever say that,” Derek tells him, a quiet rumble in his chest, and Stiles keeps his face hidden in Derek's shirt. He used to have so many words, used to be able to fill up the silences between them with anything and nothing, and now he has no words. He has nothing but his fear, and his grief; the tears he's been refusing to shed, and the desperate terror that he's still something other than himself. “You made it,” Derek says, pulling back until he can meet Stiles' eyes, his gaze steady, “and you're you.” 

“How can you be so sure,” he can't help but ask, fingers scrabbling until they twist in Derek's shirt, hold on tight to the one thing that seems concrete. “How do you know I'm me.” 

Derek gives him a sad smile, glances over his shoulder to where Scott is lurking in the doorway, watching, and looks back to Stiles. “Because the nogitsune didn't care,” he answers softly, tugging Stiles out of the kitchen, and back into the living room. The pack crowds around him when Derek pushes him gently down onto the couch, settling beside him carefully, like after all that he isn't sure of his welcome. Stiles takes a deep breath, and despite the way he's shaking and cold, and still afraid, settles comfortably against Derek's side with Scott pressed close, and Lydia settling at his feet. Isaac takes an arm chair, looking satisfied, and Kira squeezes in next to Scott, and it's almost perfect. There's an empty space to Lydia's right that will never feel whole, but Derek was right. They're healing, all of them, and Stiles exhales raggedly. Scott twines their fingers together, and Derek tugs Stiles as close as possible, and it's almost too much, the comfort in their gestures but there's no hesitation there, either. So he takes in another breath, and allows himself to relax into the warmth of two wolves on either side of him, of the feel of Lydia's hand wrapped gently around his ankle, surrounded by his pack. 

Derek's steady breathing, hot puffs of breath against Stiles' head, and Scott's quiet snuffling and hold on his hand eventually lull Stiles into sleep the way nothing else has been able to. Isaac snores quietly in the armchair, and Kira sprawls over Scott as Lydia uses Stiles' leg as a pillow. Stiles is finally, finally warm, surrounded on all sides by the people who fought so hard to get him back, and his eyes slip closed safe in the knowledge that his friends won't let him slip away in the night.


End file.
